


Starlight

by Mozzarella



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozzarella/pseuds/Mozzarella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nightlight is a fine captain and soldier to the Kingdom of Lunanoff of the golden age, but he is no comparison to the great and legendary golden age hero, General Kozmotis Pitchiner. </p><p>Though it is not the legend that takes his heart, but the man--the man Kozmotis, who finds love in him, deeming the captain his light in the darkness, a star that shines even in the pitch black brought by the fearlings which threaten the golden age.</p><p> In the very same darkness creeps a deep evil, a fear that cannot be undone, and it takes from Nightlight every happiness that he has ever experienced, starting with his beloved Kozmotis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starlight

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be posted a month ago, but what can you do? :') Beautiful art by Fox

 

  
It was in the three hundred and six thousandth year of the Golden Age of the world and all worlds that a child with hair like moonlight was born into the house of the North Star, Polaris. The child’s name was Nilivlet, edane-Gorgalu, edane-hasu-Polaris. In Moon tongue, which was the common speech of the time under the rule of the Tsar, his name meant Nightlight, son of Grey Moon, son born from the honorable house Polaris.

When he grew, he did so with such speed that many remarked on his unusual appearance--too tall, too thin, with legs and arms like sticks. But his face was pleasant, his smile wide, and his eyes twinkling like little stars over a pale space, and we was well-loved in his own home.

When he reached a certain age, a couple of centuries or so (which was young indeed for their people), Nightlight entered into the Tsar’s service. By this time, he was a fine lad, having filled out and never losing his stature.

He was handsome, of that there was no doubt.

His twinkling eyes charmed the hearts of even the hardiest of soldiers, and his face was well-formed, soft at the cheeks and perfect for the smiles he bestowed on those around him. His hair was brighter than moonlight now--a white that seemed to glow softly in gloomier places, like goose down to the touch, with an odd curl that gave him a whimsical distinctiveness. He was tall, and he was lithe, and his limbs no longer seemed as sticks.

He was not loquacious, and sometimes went days on end without a word when it was not needed. But he laughed often, and his laugh was clear and sweet, like a fine bell, and it was infectious enough to bring smiles to the faces of his graver brothers in arms.

He rose in the ranks quickly. He was not ambitious, but he was determined, focused purely on protecting the Tsar and his prosperous kingdom. He was soon promoted to Captain, given his own squadron. He and his men and women patrolled the southern ports, where mighty ships would dock after defending the land from the wild fearlings further on into space.

It was here that he first met the man who would change his life for longer than he would even exist.

 

It was a bright morning, buzzing with excitement out on the ports where the people of the kingdom had gathered to witness what they were assured would be a historical event.

Nightlight knew little of what would merit such excitement, when his pride swelled at even the mere thought of his kingdom home. In his mind, every day was something to be remembered.

Still, he did his duty, securing one of the largest ports and keeping the many gawking citizens in line, making sure they did not hurt themselves trying to see over each other in the confusion.

All his efforts to keep order seemed for naught, as the people began to pitch forward restlessly as the first sign of a great ship appeared through the mists of far space, approaching with a dignity unmatched by any other ship Nightlight had ever seen.

It was a great galleon, greater than all the golden age ships, and it was filled to the brim with soldiers, all fine men and women who were the best of the best, who served under the greatest armada in all the constellations.

It was an armada that served every kingdom, not just the one, and protected them from the ever-present grasp of the fearlings, the creatures which thrived in the darkness of space. Because the kingdom Lunanoff, under the Tsar and Tsarina, was so well-secured by its own small armies and its own captains, visits from the armada were rare. Nightlight had only ever seen a handful in his lifetime, and that was long ago, before he was even old enough to consider becoming a soldier.

As captain of the squadron assigned to the port, it was Nightlight’s duty to give the ship its first welcome, so when it docked and was secured, he dismounted from his pure white steed and stepped onto the gangway that led up to the high deck of the golden galleon.

The sight that greeted him when he stepped on was unparalleled.

Before him stood, flanked by a great many noble soldiers, all dressed in the finest gold robes, a man. Rather, more than a man. A presence, tall and striking in his grandiose yet impeccably severe golden age uniform, the very picture of surety and unwavering certainty, looked down at Nightlight. It was rare for anyone to do such a thing--Nightlight was tall, and among his fellow soldiers, he was considerable enough to look over many heads, levelling only when he looked down.

Nightlight forgot himself for half a second--half a second that he knew did not go unnoticed, as he saluted the man who was very obviously head of the ship.

“Captain Nightlight of the port guard of Lunanoff, in service to the Tsar and Tsarina Lunanoff,” he stated as a formal introduction.

Before him, the man saluted Nightlight in kind, greeting him in a measured voice, “General Kozmotiz Pitchiner of the golden armada, in service of all constellations and every kingdom that rules them.”

But oh, if Nightlight weren’t so wary to avoid the same mistake a second time, he would have balked, and his knees would have buckled at his word.

General Kozmotis Pitchiner. Nightlight had heard stories of the man since he was a child. The hero of the golden age, the great general who sailed the black, starless regions of space to thwart the cold fear that dared to upset the peace their kingdoms upheld.

He was older, somewhere in his early thousands. He was not the sort of handsome that would have had women swooning, with his cheeks too sunken and his aquiline nose almost beak-like. His pallor was greyish, perhaps for the darkness left over from his adventures. But his eyes were telling--pure, piercing gold, unwaveringly focused and all too beautiful.

Nightlight could only see greatness in him--in his stature, in the way he held himself, proud but not arrogant, self-assured but not in excess. His uniform accented his strong shoulders, or perhaps made them up, with the help of his rigid posture.

“We bid you a great welcome, General,” said Nightlight genuinely. “I believe they wish to hold a feast in your honor at--”

“If there is a feast indeed planned, as you say, Captain, then I shall attend for propriety’s sake, but I had rather hoped to retire for the evening, after my noon’s audience with the Tsar and Tsarina, and their young son,” Pitch said. There was something odd about his tone--rigid, but not stony, like softness layered in a coat or two of inbred discipline. “Though my soldiers would do well with some honoring. Many of them are better than I--all of them at feasts.”

Nightlight felt his cheeks flush as he smiled widely, unable to hide his delight at the General’s (admittedly unexpected) cordiality.

“I shall consult with the Tsar on the matter,” said Nightlight, “if you wish.”

“It will be much appreciated, dane Nightlight.”

He didn’t believe he could muster any more delight than he already felt.

“You speak Kolakkosi,” Nightlight said. It was the native tongue of their people, the Kolakkos, a small settlement of star men on a belt of floating moonstone on the fringes of the Lunanoff kingdom. It was small, but it was grand--a village made of spires, like pieces of a palace, circling constantly around the center of their constellation.

“Yal i anak, yal i amma e inna. Pa i nuem Kozmotis Pitchiner, edane-Solaris, amma Serafina,” said the captain, his thin, grey mouth stretched in an imperceptible smile.

“Pal i nuem Nilivlet, edane-Gorgalu, edane-hasu-Polaris,” said Nightlight almost breathlessly.

“Then we are of twin houses, bekar,” said Pitchiner, his hand coming to rest on Nightlight’s shoulder. “My father and your great-grandfather shared a kinship that reflects in their names. I hope we can claim the same bond, in camaraderie if not kinship as well.”

And boldly, Nightlight grasped Pitchiner’s hand, still on his shoulder, and squeezed it. The General then slipped from his grip and walked down the gangplank, never losing face, nor sacrificing his posture.

“Lead the way, Captain Nightlight of the port guard,” he called, and Nightlight followed quickly, feeling as though he might glow if it were any dimmer than noontime.

 

Evening saw the General Kozmotis Pitchiner honored for his continued, unwavering duty to the kingdoms in the stars, and later found Nightlight accompanying the man back to their homeland, where the younger had not returned in three-some years.

He had been given time to prepare in the afternoon, when all he could think of was how no one had ever mentioned how closely related they were--he, a mere captain and shipping guard, and Pitchiner, a legendary general that protected every creature from dreaded darkness.

They rode together, Nightlight with his trusty steed Molunlet, a homegrown young stallion that was pure white, like the moonlight he’d been named after, and Pitchiner upon his own steed, a fine black mare larger than Nightlight’s own.

Out of duty, Pitchiner still carried himself the same way, back ever-straight and chin ever-level, but he was... talkative. His face was soft enough for smiles that filled in his gaunt cheeks, and he asked many things that Nightlight found himself enthused enough to answer.

They spoke of changes, since Pitchiner’s last return about two hundred years prior. Nightlight had been but a toddler then, learning how to walk on two legs, and Pitchiner remarked that he might have seen him once in passing--for it was rare to see a child with pure white hair, whereas it was a commonplace trait to the old.

Nightlight found out that Serafina, whom Pitch had introduced as his daughter earlier on the ship, was the young woman in their village who lived in the sharp spire with the golden sun speared through by a crescent moon. She had been like a fairy tale princess to them, always looking down from her high window, so beautiful and so proud. His mother had once said that she was kin, a cousin of some sort, and Nightlight used this excuse to exempt himself from the courting games his fellows used to play. It wasn’t as though the distant relation deterred him--only his distinct lack of attraction for what he considered the most majestic of beauties.

He knew what attraction was only through the detailed descriptions given to him by his peers. He had never felt it before.

Until recently, he realized, when he felt his breath shorten, his eyes wandering, his heart beating against the wall of his chest. Recently. Just the noon prior, in fact, and now, riding beside a weary General.

“Do you ride often?” asked Nightlight, and Pitchiner looked at him a bit coldly, as though irritated by his doubt--and, more obviously, by his own weariness.

“Bemar is made from dark stardust,” he said, patting his steed on the side of the neck. “And can ride through black space. I ride her often, when I am patrolling away from the Golden Galleon.”

“Do you think you will be able to sleep?” Nightlight said, smiling. “Rest upon Bemar’s neck as we go on?”

“That doesn’t sound terribly wise,” said Pitchiner, frowning. Nightlight chuckled. “I can lead her,” he said. “If she is well-behaved, she will not run away, and I can lead her through easier paths. I have had my rest. You, on the other hand, look like you have not slept in weeks, o General.”

“I have not,” said Pitchiner haltingly. “There was an attack. It was the kingdom of Ursa. A village was ravaged, but we were able to drive the fearlings back beyond the borders.”

Nightlight stilled, though his horse plodded on. “I am sorry, General Pitchiner,” he said shakily.

“Your concern for me is well appreciated, bekar Nightlight. Perhaps I shall rest. I doubt I shall come into harm with you in my presence,” Pitchiner said good-humoredly, leaning forward to rest on Bemar’s neck. The mare was well-trained, barely reacting even with the new weight.

Pitchiner was fading fast into slumber, but before he drifted off, Nightlight heard the last of his words.

“And please, call me Kozmotis,” he murmured sleepily. “If we are to be kinsmen proper, then you can at least give me.... that much...”

Nightlight nodded, knowing that Pitch--Kozmotis, would not see it anyway, but the action was genuine.

If only he could keep himself from reaching out, and stroking the General’s hair back from his wrinkled grey forehead. If only.

  

When he met the princess (not truly a princess, but he’d taken to calling her that in his head, since he was a child), she told him she knew him--or at least the color of his hair.

She was very much like her father, with his cold, proud outer shell, transparent enough to those who leaned in close to see the soft warmth within.

Serafina, edame-Kozmotis, was a fine, beautiful young woman, and her features were very similar to her father’s, if softer and more graceful. Still, her beauty did not stir Nightlight in the same way, prompting him to silence when both father and daughter spoke to each other and not him.

“I do not imagine my child with anyone, even if in my mind I know that she is no longer a child, and that suitors must be lining up at her feet. I do not see many worthy men, except among my own, and even they would not be given leave to court her,” Kozmotis said later after Serafina had retired for the night.

They were loosened by fine wine and Nightlight found himself smiling more often than was considered proper, his cheeks pink from the substance. Somehow, Kozmotis’ shoulders had relaxed into the conversations, and even without his soldier’s posture, he still looked as formidable and graceful as ever.

“Do you think her beautiful, bekar?” Kozmotis asked wistfully.

“I think she is the most beautiful woman in all of the kingdom,” Nightlight answered honestly, “but her is the beauty of a star. It stands with its own light, and cannot be touched, but touches whomever it chooses. She is a strong soul, like her father, a proud but gentle heart.”

“You think my heart gentle?” Kozmotis said, laughing. His laugh brought Nightlight much warmth.

“You love gently,” Nightlight said quietly. “I see it in your eyes when you look at your daughter, and in your smile. Softened, but never weakened.”

“How can you be certain of how I love?” Kozmotis asked, and the warm buzz in Nightlight’s mind from the drink prevented him from hearing the apprehension, and the anticipation in his tone.

“I’m not,” Nightlight said, “but I wish to be.”

After a few moments, when his mind caught up with his mouth, Nightlight clapped his hand over his lips and his eyes widened at his own words. He didn’t mean to say it. He never should have. He stepped out of line, and he couldn’t even look up, afraid to meet the General’s eyes.

“Was I a hero, to you?” Kozmotis asked, his voice somewhat harsher. “Did you have an idea of me, a golden figure? Perhaps you were disappointed when you saw this grey old man standing where a legend should have been.”

“I heard stories of a hero,” Nightlight said, trembling, “but I only ever felt for the man. The imperfect, grey man, the man who gave his life and his time with his beautiful daughter for everyone’s sake. For the hero of a man who would risk his life for the billions who know him not.”

Thin fingers clasped his chin, raising his eyes to meet the intense, golden gaze.

“What do you feel for this man?” Kozmotis asked, his voice pitched suddenly low.

“Perhaps... love,” Nightlight whispered.

“Perhaps?”

“I have never felt it before him.”

When their lips met, a firm hand holding them together, Nightlight glowed.

He glowed like starlight, every inch of him shimmering when he was disrobed, and in the dark room where they’d ascended--Kozmotis’ own spartan lodging, decorated by his daughter with heirlooms and childhood things--the young soldier with shimmering hair was the only light in the sweet, encompassing darkness.

  

They returned to the palace Lunanoff the next morning, bidding Serafina good bye and riding fast. No words passed between them over the course of their travel, and Nightlight worried, perturbed by what should have been a familiar sight--the general Kozmotis Pitchiner holding his head high, his posture rigid even as they rode through the forest paths.

They slowed as they entered the bustling city, and Nightlight was greeted by some of the soldiers who were doing their rounds, clamming up at the sight of the proud general he rode with. Nightlight couldn’t blame them--there was something about seeing Kozmotis smile gently in the soft light of a fire that made his return to the persona of a general all the more shocking.

Nightlight feared. He feared that the dalliance was a mere slip on Kozmotis’ part, that he familiarity he’d extended and the night they’d shared was nothing more than a mistake. For a moment, he was a child again, holding back tears and hoping that his companion did not see the doubt in his eyes.

It wasn’t until they dismounted at the gates of the palace that Kozmotis turned to speak to him, and Nightlight stiffened when the man touched his arm.

The involuntary movement made Kozmotis frown. “Are you so disgusted by me now, in the light? Or did the darkness help you forget my ugliness?” he said.

Nightlight fumbled, his eyes widening with relief. “No! No, it is not that.” He angled them away from prying eyes, enough that he could grip Kozmotis’ hand gently, with a tinge of desperation.

“I fear,” he said quietly, solemnly, and Kozmotis grasped him in turn.

“Why do you fear?” he questioned. He knew fear, well enough. He’d fought against it, all too often, in his darker battles.

“I fear that in the morning, I no longer shine as bright in your eyes,” Nightlight said quietly. “I fear that I am made dull, now that you see and think clearer.”

“Do not fear,” said Kozmotis. They were not words of comfort, no--they were stated like an order. “Do not fear for something so little as this. Fear is dangerous, and it poisons all things beautiful. I stedakarr, do not fear, for it is your light, the memory of it, like a star’s light, that will comfort me in the darkness. I would not have it dulled by fear. I un Illuvitar, i bekar, i stedakarr. I mahal.”

They parted as the gates parted for them, and they entered the palace with renewed light, some courage that shone through whatever fear they might have carried from darker places.

 

“What does this mean, then?” Katherine asked impatiently. Nightlight laughed, his eyes following the young girl’s delicate finger.

“Stedakarr,” said Nightlight, smiling at the coincidence. “It means star.”

“Such a long word for it,” Katherine observed, writing in her little book like the scribe she was hoping to become.

“Stars are grand things, full of light,” Nightlight said. “We have many words for it. Stedakarr is a star which shines bright and twinkles in the deep dark, without any light to dim it. Stakarr is a star seen on a bright evening, twinkling in and out of sight. Sekarrlet is the light of a star, which is seen many centuries after its death.”

“What about Nightlight?” asked Katherine wryly. “What is that in Kolakkosi?”

“Nilivlet,” said Nightlight. “That was my birth name. Nilivlet, edane-Gorgalu. Though I have gotten used to my name in Moon tongue.”

“Edane... does that mean son?”

“Edan means son. Edane means ‘son of’. It ties me to my father, and our house, Polaris. It is the higher ranking parent whose name I carry, for my father was a Captain in his youth, just as I am now. Captain of the guard, much higher than my own rank. There is a boy I grew up with, in Kolakkos. His name was Kilin, edane-Maranwe. Maranwe was a noblewoman of the court, and so he carries her name rather than his father’s.”

“What if they are of the same rank?” Katherine asked.

“Is this to your academic interests, little scribe?” Nightlight asked, mussing her hair affectionately.

“Either way, you have to answer! You promised to answer all my questions about the Kolakkos and the tongue,” Katherine said petulantly.

“That I did,” Nightlight agreed, “within reason, of course.”

He settled on the balls of his feet, bending his knees and making him look like a noble white frog.

“When they are of the same rank,” Nightlight explained. “It is the child who chooses his or her own name.”

The afternoon was spent this way, for Nightlight had been told to wait until the Tsar’s meeting with Kozmotis had come to an end. Nightlight found himself roped into helping Katherine’s studies. She was indeed a scribe of the kingdom, the youngest he’d ever known, but he knew her to be prolific and was amenable to assisting her in her translations.

They spoke of many things, of names and objects and places. Near the end of it, Katherine had asked him of a strange word, one that did not seem to have a singular root.

“Illuvitar,” said Nightlight. “It roughly translates into ‘life light’. It is a word exchanged only between the most solemn of loves. It is like... an assignation. To call someone Illuvitar is to mark them as the hope that keeps them from fear, their light in the darkness. It dispels all doubt, and it binds them in every way, eternally.” His tone was far-off, thoughtful, and his smile was soft when he told her this, and before Katherine could ask, a palace guard had Nightlight summoned, and they parted ways.

The young Captain was reunited with his General when they met at the main hall, which led to the palace gates. Kozmotis was silent, graver and greyer than before. Nightlight walked close, not enough to touch, keeping up his facade of impersonality. Their horses were fetched, and Kozmotis was given a place to stay near the port.

Only when they began to ride did the general open his mouth.

“They have found a way to subdue the fearlings in great numbers,” said Kozmotis. “Trap them, in a prison made for their very essences. The Tsar believes this to be our great solution.”

“You don’t seem convinced,” Nightlight remarked.

“No,” said Kozmotis, “though I do believe it to be a reasonable solution, all the same. You see, when you take a knife to a fearling, it only seems to multiply. All we’ve been able to do is drive them back. Moonlight cuts through them, weakens them, but they seem to recover, even multiply, after a few years time. Starlight--pure starlight, rarest material in the kingdoms--it kills them, though the little we have is not enough to destroy them before they have the chance to repopulate. If captured, they will not be able to repopulate. If, by some miracle, we are able to subdue every fearling that has ever threatened the constellations, then perhaps, we might be freed of the plague that has threatened us for so long. Perhaps...”

“Perhaps you could finally go home,” said Nightlight knowingly.

“It is a possibility,” said Kozmotis, his eyes squeezed weakly shut. “I set sail again in two week’s time, just to give my crew a chance to rest and replenish our stocks. They’ve given me a room, in an inn near the docks, I--”

“You could stay with me,” Nightlight said suddenly. It was a silly thing to say, to presume, but Kozmotis looked at him expectantly, all the same.

“I have a room, in the palace wall. I was educated within the palace, in care of the Tsar. It is not in the barracks,” he explained, “and larger than an inn. And two weeks is too short a time to be spent apart,” he added, his throat drying along with his words.

Kozmotis smiled, slowly, imperceptibly.

“Then I shall send word to the innkeeper that I have found lodging elsewhere,” he said wryly.

 

The fortnight was spent in a contrasts--disciplined days and wildly passionate nights coloring that stage of both their lives.

Nightlight had never been happier than he was then, and though he did not know it, he would never be happier again.

 

When the Golden Galleon left port, Nightlight did not wave good bye. He saluted the man he wanted nothing more than to embrace, like a good captain, and the general did the same.

He was comforted, nonetheless, by the weight of a golden band around neck, shaped like a moon--it fit with his uniform, and if his soldiers found it strange, they said nothing of it. After all, captains were allowed their little luxuries. It was almost expected, really, though Nightlight had never even considered acting beyond his station.

Of course, he mused cheerfully, cavorting with the general blew all his captain’s propriety out of the water.

 

There were promises, and there were letters, within the year. They were like status reports, at first, of where he was, what he was doing, what troubles they’d encountered--or what little of it.

They’d set sail with a cage of intricate design, made specially for the fearlings they intended to capture.

It was another year before there was news of a successful raid on a nest, and they were told that the ship would be returning soon. And true to form, when they did return, docking once more on the port to welcoming citizens, Nightlight was the first one Kozmotis seemed to search for in the crowds. With his white hair, on his white horse, and the golden band around his neck, he wasn’t a hard find.

The galleon seemed to weigh heavier, even when the fearlings were weightless. The golden soldiers who had once looked entirely unmoved had tired rings beneath their eyes, as if the presence of the fearlings had weakened them. While they were given the comforts of the golden port to rejuvenate them, it fell to the general to direct transportation to the palace dungeon, where the fearlings were to be kept.

He was greyer now, more tired, his golden eyes more watchful. That night, he retired to a fitful slumber, calming only when Nightlight leaned over him and kissed his eyes, his forehead, and many other parts of his face and neck, a tender comfort to alleviate him of the dark he’d brought home.

It was another week before they set sail again, and soldiers were replaced for the mission, the stocks renewed. The only one who was sent back, on the second journey, was Kozmotis, who did so with the strength and pride they knew him for, and a golden band around his own neck--one that was identical to Nightlight’s.

And if the soldiers noticed, they did not say. After all, who could begrudge a man his comforts in the dark?

 

They returned to the port of Lunanoff all too often now, with more and more fearlings in tow. The entire kingdom deemed Kozmotis a hero, held feasts in his honor, even when he himself was not around. They spoke of his daughter, and Nightlight overheard plans of bringing her to the palace, to be made a noble.

“I would not mind terribly,” said Serafina, when he met her during one of his visits home. “Especially now, when my father has another place to go home to, other than here.”

They would speak of letters received, and gifts they would send back, whatever they could do to aid him in his travels.

“He wears us both over his heart now,” Serafina said wistfully. “He has a locket, you see. A picture of me in my childhood years, before he was tasked to guard the kingdoms. He tells me that it is his comfort, to see his little girl, even when she is not so little anymore. And now he tells me that along with the twin gold band, the moon gift you have given him, he is reminded of lighter, lovelier things than the dreaded dark of fear.”

And though the thought comforted them both, when the general next came, no one could deny how much more tired he looked.

 

The mission went on for twenty years, and in that time, Nightlight was promoted to Captain of the guard. It was a dream of his, once, though he regretted not being able to greet his lover at the port whenever the golden galleon (dimming, he noted once, due to its cargo) sailed back into Lunanoff space. They met in the evenings, and Nightlight would trace his finger over Kozmotis’ face--gaunter, thinner, like a skeleton, with deeper shadows that seemed to cling to him.

He was tired nearly always now, and it took him longer to speak Nightlight’s name, when he looked upon him. It was obvious how heavily the fear weighed on him. It did so with other soldiers, even when they were replaced with every voyage.

Nightlight wondered if the loved ones of the other soldiers were experiencing what he was--blank looks, long silences, and terrors in the night, all afflicting his beloved. Nightlight had grown just a bit more, and he matched Kozmotis in height, though the general seemed shorter--not in height, but in the way he held himself, as though the weight of the fearlings’ presence wore him down. Nightlight would spend many evenings holding him, tucking Kozmotis’ head under his chin and whispering sweet nothings in Kolakkosi, soothing him to sleep.

When they made love, it was no longer wild, no longer passionate, but it was sweet, still, and full of emotion. Sometimes, it was even desperate, when they clutched each other like lifelines, and Kozmotis would look upon his glow with wonder in his eyes, his gray hands everywhere, hungry for the captain’s light and warmth.

When the general would leave, once more, Nightlight prayed in his heart that his light would bear in Kozmotis’ memory and guide him through the darkness.

 

It was in the twenty-fifth year that it ended.

Every fearling in space had been captured, and Kozmotis received the highest of honors from every kingdom. They made a statue to honor him and offered him riches beyond imagining--riches he turned down, save for the offer of continuing comfort for his daughter.

Nightlight stood, giddier than he’d been in over twenty years, at the door of the Tsar’s great hall, waiting for the general to finish his audience.

It was then that Katherine greeted him. She was not like him--she aged faster, now a young woman with a warm smile and clever eyes. It was the same cleverness he saw in her as a child, now layered with worldliness and experience as an adult.

Nightlight, on his part, had not changed, save for his wider shoulders and slight increase in height.

“They keep the fearlings beneath the palace,” Katherine said, “in the darkest place. It is becoming more and more difficult to guard them.”

“Perhaps if they simply sealed them away?” Nightlight said.

“I would have suggested that, but the Tsar spoke of another way,” Katherine said, shaking her head.

Another way, indeed, was paved, and Lunanoff rested easy that night--all but Nightlight himself.

He had never been angrier. Angry at the Tsar whom he swore allegiance, angry at his lover, who had the gall to agree, angry at the plan, the plan they made behind his back.

“I am to guard the fearling prison,” Kozmotis said. “Day and night. I rest on every seventh day, and resume again, ensuring this kingdom’s safety, and ensuring that all the kingdoms will not have to face these nightmares.”

“But what of you?” Nightlight questioned harshly. “Must you face them every day, to appease fools and careless pigs who honor you in the light but abandon you to the darkness?” His words were cruel, and so was his heart, at this moment, constricted by the thought of his lover, alone in the dark, without even the company of his soldiers to ease his suffering.

Kozmotis did not respond immediately, staring off into the distance--rather, staring at Nightlight, who was angered more so by his silence. He wanted to strike him. He wanted to cry, and shout, and he wanted Kozmotis to look at him with the same sharpness he’d once had, not the empty stares he gave him now.

And when Kozmotis reached out to hold him, a steady embrace full of knowing promise, he broke down, sobbing into the man’s chest and holding on to him for dear life.

 

In a year, Kozmotis began to forget. He forgot words in Kolakkosi, and forgot the name of his own home. He forgot the name of the people he knew from the palace, and sometimes, in between the silences that marked his hesitation, he forgot even Nightlight’s name--until, at least, he whispered it against glowing skin, and gasped it in their lovemaking.

 

In another two years, Nightlight was tried and acquitted for attacking a fellow soldier. The arrogant captain spoke ill of Kozmotis, saying that the old man had obviously extended his warranty as a useful tool. He was discharged both from the service after his discharge from the hospital, his arm broken and his pride crushed.

Nightlight was acquitted in the trial, though he was demoted, back to his old station where the soldiers welcomed him warmly.

 

It was another five years before Kozmotis’ memory failed him entirely.

Nightlight had been sent on a mission, two years before, as an emissary to five other kingdoms with whom the Tsar wished to ally with. One of the most marked ones was the planet of the Pooka, a race of time travellers and scientists and creatures with the most stunning technological advancements.

It took him two years to finish his task, and when he returned, he was all too eager to see his friends, his family, and most of all, his beloved.

When Serafina greeted him with a look of mourning, he assumed the worst.

“He is--”

“He is not,” Serafina said, shaking her head. “He remembers things, now. He speaks Kolakkosi again. He is coherent, and spirited, as he was in younger years.”

Nightlight’s heart soared at the words, but Serafina’s expression told him different.

“He remembers everything from many years ago,” she explained. “He remembers me as a child. He is baffled to see me now, fully grown. And when I ask of you...”

Nightlight’s heart broke before she could even finish.

“He does not know who you are.”

 

It pained him to know the truth. He descended to the prison, felt the darkness and the fear weighing on him from all sides, but he paid it no heed.

He was stark against the shadows, a clear figure in the dark, and when Kozmotis looked at him (his eyes sharp and alert, again), he seemed to look on in awe.

“Who are you?” he asked, and Nightlight fought back tears.

“I am... a friend,” he said weakly.

Kozmotis smiled, the small smile Nightlight had missed. “Come sit with me, then, friend,” he said, patting the space beside him. “I welcome any and all company, though not many come to see me. This place weighs heavily on them.”

“As it does on you?” Nightlight said, much too harshly for a stranger.

“I have my own ways to bear the burden,” Kozmotis said, clutching the little locket around his neck. He did not wear the band. Nightlight felt tears on his cheeks before he could blink them back.

“Is this place weighing on you already?” Kozmotis asked, frowning with concern. “You should go, before your light dims.”

“What light?” Nightlight asked, his tone petulant, like a child’s.

Kozmotis paused, studying Nightlight, as though he held the answers, before raising his hand to touch his soft white hair.

“There is a light in you. So clear in this darkness. I would not see it dimmed.”

Nightlight cried freely, but upon Kozmotis word, he stood. When the general bade him leave, so that the fearlings and their tricks would not touch him, he kissed the general’s hand without explanation, and left.

Within the week, the kingdom fell. It was, they said, a trick of the fearlings, who seeped into the general’s mind. They made him enter their prison, and devoured him, leaving nothing but his body.

“We must hurry, go!” Nightlight said, shouting over the rumble that broke the earth that held the golden city together. He clutched a child in his hands--the son of the Tsar and Tsarina, and from the room of weapons took a spear of starlight, the rarest of its kind in every kingdom.

They fled far, the fearlings devouring every world they overtook in the chase. But it was near the end that Nightlight was faced with the worst of his fears, for the first time in many years.

Before him was Kozmotis--no. No longer his beloved.

Before him was Pitch Black, the nightmare king. The enemy, who wore a golden band around his neck like a corruption of all things Nightlight had ever held dear.

And like a good soldier, he fought the enemy, fought him to his last breath.

* * *

It is said that Pitch Black was held at bay for centuries, after a great battle in the aftermath of the destruction of the golden age, by a single shard of light that had embedded itself in his heart.

The moon lamas had a word for it: Illuvitar. It was a dead language they did not know, but they decided that it could have meant ‘light in the darkness’, for was it not that, a light that kept the darkness at bay?

There was no memory left of Nilivlet, edane-Gorgalu, edane-hasu-Polaris, the boy--the man--who loved and lost. There was only a story--one of Nightlight, who rescued the Tsar and Tsarina’s child from Pitch’s clutches.

There was no memory of Kozmotis Pitchiner, edane-Solaris, amma Serafina. Only a fallen general, who had succumbed to the darkness that weighed heavily on his soul.

And all that was left of their love was a glow, a small thing pulsing in the heart of the Nightmare King.

A glow, coming from a creature whose hair was white, like starlight.


End file.
